


Love me, and mend

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-27
Updated: 2010-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:10:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thought had occurred to him once: if Merlin had been born a noble, they might have been friends. But lately he had come to know better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love me, and mend

**Author's Note:**

> This is set during or after season 1, as far as events go. Huge thanks to [](http://ella-bane.livejournal.com/profile)[**ella_bane**](http://ella-bane.livejournal.com/) and [](http://frek.livejournal.com/profile)[**frek**](http://frek.livejournal.com/) for beta-reading and hand-holding.

After a week of watching Arthur behaving oddly, lapsing into strange silences and faraway looks, Merlin finally asked if he had been struck upon the head and made simple.

Arthur looked back at him with a serious expression, though Merlin had the unsettling feeling that Arthur was not really looking at him at all. He felt that odd little knot of concern that tugged at him now and then, and restrained the desire to go over and tilt Arthur's head up, check his eyes and feel his forehead, gestures pulled from years of watching Mother and Gaius each.

"Obviously the last time was a mistake," Arthur said, which made no sense at all. "And I would never suggest that you assault the crown prince."

"Assault?"

"But if you happened to have a piece of wood near to hand, and should it become necessary — highly unlikely but I do seem to have placed my interest in an unwise —"

"Arthur," Merlin interrupted.

Arthur did look at him then, properly. "There is...a maid."

It dawned on Merlin all at once.

"That sounds like a terrible idea," he said.

Arthur agreed. Then he sighed in a lovelorn manner that had Merlin wanting to reach for his spellbook immediately.

"Who is it?" Merlin asked calmly. If it was an enchantress or a demon, he would have to wait until nightfall to deal with them, but that was not so long. The afternoon was already beginning to sink into the drowsy colours of dusk.

Arthur pressed his hand to his mouth, a little gesture of thought, and turned away towards the fireplace. "I don't suppose it is any concern of yours," he said. "But given the nature of — given her position, then perhaps —"

"Arthur," Merlin said. "Who?"

"Hilde," Arthur said, looking out the window and down to the courtyard below.

The name was familiar but for a moment Merlin could not place it. He rushed through the memory of half a dozen ladies at court without success, but it was not until his gaze fell on the untidy floor that he remembered.

He laughed. Well, it was clear, now. Arthur had gotten him again, with a better jest than Merlin had tried on him last week.

Arthur was glowering. "And this amuses you?" he asked darkly.

"Yes," Merlin admitted. "Hilde — that's the name of your new chambermaid. I thought you were serious."

"I am."

"Look," said Merlin, "if this is about the salt I put in your wine, that was —" he frowned. "Not really the same kind of play," he finished, confused all of a sudden, uncertainty creeping in. 

Arthur, on the other hand, looked implacable.

"Oh," Merlin said.

*

Upon leaving Arthur's chambers, Merlin hurried downstairs, enquiring as he went as to the whereabouts of this Hilde. He followed a trail of disinterested shrugs and pointed fingers, and one lascivious eyebrow waggle, all the way to the lower levels of the castle, where at last he found a young woman standing in the doorway to the kitchens.

"You've been asking for me?" she said, prompting, but Merlin was too surprised to answer. 

Hilde was not lovely. Perhaps she was slightly pretty, or maybe a little handsome, but nothing like the women that usually turned Arthur's head. Merlin looked helplessly at her reddened hands and the scrawny breadth of her torso. At her face, thin and pale.

"Gods!" the cook exclaimed as she hurried by, an enormous pot in her hands. "You could be brother and sister, the two o' you. Look at this pair, Mary," she said, tossing a nod towards the doorway. 

Mary didn't pause in her crust-making, but she did look up and make a few remarks about the scourge of wandering menfolk.

"Ah, never mind," Merlin said quickly. He tried to smile at Hilde; he knew it meant a lot when someone was kind to you in Camelot. "Sorry, I just, well, have to get back to work. Very, um, busy; very busy. Sorry."

He backed out and turned down the deep corridor, his heart thumping.

*

Magic was the only answer. 

An enchantment. Something to make Arthur want things he had never shown the slightest interest in before.

Merlin forewent grooming the horses in favour of paging through his book of spells, running his fingers over lines of text and muttering under his breath. 

He took careful note of the section on lust potions (_Causing a Ripple in the Languid Pool of Their Heart_, page 173), the series on affectionate enchantments (pages 280 - 84, with some truly horrible illustrations involving blooming flowers and, confusingly, a cow), and last of all, the weighty chapter devoted to love spells. On the very first page someone had scrawled _There is no such thing_, and Merlin didn't think it was Gaius's hand. He wondered about the person who must have had the book before, and why they hadn't believed magic could make a person feel love when so obviously it could make people feel hate and fear, and sometimes even happiness. 

At least, that was how it felt to Merlin.

*

Despite how certain he was that magic would solve the problem, none of his attempts to disenchant Arthur worked. Nothing in his book, or Gaius's books, took away the madness plaguing Arthur, the shine in his eyes, those idiotic expressions when he thought no one was looking at him. Worse still was the scene awaiting Merlin in Arthur's chambers: Hilde sweeping the floor and Arthur lounging on his bed, watching her. But he wasn't glancing idly at her hips, the way he sometimes did with chambermaids. Instead, he kept looking at Hilde's face, trying to catch her eye and when he succeeded, smiling at her.

Merlin put the tray down with a thud. 

"Do be careful, Merlin," said Arthur.

"Food's ready," Merlin replied curtly, and told Hilde to go before Arthur could jump on his improper address. "The prince will be sitting down to his meal," he explained. 

Hilde nodded and quickly cleaned up the mess she had gathered to the side of the room. 

"I don't think my floor has ever been so well-swept," Arthur approved as she reached the door.

Merlin felt nauseated on behalf of every sensible person in the kingdom, and he was short with Arthur for the rest of the evening. It didn't make him feel any better and later he spent a very sleepless night wondering, if he wasn't bespelled, just what kind of game Arthur was playing. 

*

Merlin kept a close watch on Hilde over the following days. 

It was clear to him that she had been raised to the life of a servant. She did not speak first to anyone above her station, unless it was necessary, but she seemed fond of talking with her friends. And she was quick at her work, carrying out her duties with a keen focus, as though she knew how they should be done and nothing else was of consequence.

Merlin considered what she might have been like, if she hadn't been born powerless and poor, if she had perhaps been of noble blood and more worthy of a crown prince. He had thought about that sort of thing a lot, since he arrived in Camelot and saw for himself the ways society was broken into stratas of worthy and not.

What was perfectly clear, however, was that Hilde was not like _him_. Merlin knew these parts of himself well enough now: that he chafed at orders; that he wanted to know _why_ a thing must be done before he did it. Merlin needed to know how the world moved around him — how it moved around Arthur. He sat awake some mornings, when the light was still low and grey, full of these things he didn't understand, burning with questions he couldn't ask.

Perhaps it wasn't a game, he thought, turning it over in his mind. Perhaps Arthur simply liked — a certain look, and it was pure happenstance that Merlin was born into dark hair and a long face. 

But nothing in Merlin's life had ever seemed like happenstance. There was certainly a dragon beneath the castle who would tell him there was nothing but destiny, yet that would mean he had been fashioned not just for Arthur's safety but for Arthur's tastes, right down to the colour of his hair and the skin on his cheek, down to his long hands and his stupid awkward limbs — right down to the bones of him. 

There was a time, in the early days, when Merlin decided Arthur didn't have to _like_ him in order for Merlin to do his job, to fulfill his destiny. He only needed to keep Arthur alive and well, and if Arthur found Merlin annoying, so be it.

He didn't know what to do with the idea that Arthur might like him after all. Might think him — pleasing to look at. 

At least, pleasing to look at, if he weren't a man.

*

He lost his temper. 

It came after experiencing a strange sort of break between he and Arthur, where he did all the things he usually did – cleaning and carrying and dressing – but without any sense of comfort or ease. There was little conversation between them, and Merlin found that was what he missed most, what most troubled him, when he could stand in Arthur's chambers and peel the clothing from Arthur's body and feel as though he was still miles away.

He relented, asked quietly what Arthur liked about her.

"I'm sure I have already _told_ you," Arthur said crossly.

"You said she had nice ankles," Merlin replied. 

"There you are," Arthur said dismissively.

Merlin bit down on his frustration. "No," he said, "there must be something more than that. You _like_ her."

Arthur's shoulders were drawing tight with tension, but Merlin refused to stop. This was important, he knew it was.

"So just tell me what it is. You –" Merlin cast around wildly for an example. "You think she's honourable," he suggested. 

Arthur gave him a withering look.

"Alright. You think she's brave or, or that she cares about people, when she doesn't have to." Inspiration hit. "You make her laugh. And you like that."

Arthur's face was beginning to resemble the stone walls surrounding them.

"No," Merlin considered, deflating a little. "I don't suppose you would."

"I fail to see the point of this, Merlin."

"I'm just trying to find out why you like her."

"And if I wanted you to know my private business I would have informed you by now," Arthur said.

"It is my business, Arthur!" Merlin insisted hotly, thinking _selfish, selfish, selfish_. 

Arthur stared at him thunderously. 

"No, _Merlin_, it is not. Let me remind you of your position in this kingdom," he said icily. "You are a servant. I am the crown prince. _Nothing_ is your business unless I say it is. In fact, the only thing with which you should concern yourself is the cleaning of my boots and the polishing of my armour and _hoping_ that I find your work satisfactory. Do you understand?" 

Merlin forced the correct response out of his mouth, stung beyond protest. "Yes, sire."

"Now get out," said Arthur. 

*

It took a few days for the cold between them to disperse. By then Merlin had done a lot of thinking, about Hilde and Arthur and Guinevere, too. 

On the evening of the fourth day Arthur sat down at his table, dining alone again, even as Uther and Morgana sat together in the hall. 

Merlin began to set out the dinner dishes carefully and said, "You like that she is obedient." Arthur lifted his head sharply, but Merlin continued. "You like that she knows her place in the kingdom, because everyone has a place and that makes it all work. And you like that she'll never turn away from you, because you're the prince and so she has to love you." 

"Nobody has to love a prince. Or a king."

"But they do anyway."

Arthur glowered at him but it was not real anger now. It was just for show.

Merlin had laid out the platter full of bread and cheese, the fruit, the meat. He set a goblet of mulled wine to one side.

"She's not real to you," he finished.

"I didn't dream her up, Merlin," Arthur replied scornfully. "I'm fairly certain she actually comes in here and sweeps my floors and makes my bed."

"No," Merlin tried to find the words to explain what was really only an instinct, a gut feeling. "But you don't have to worry," he said, "if she'll love you back – or stop or change her mind or anything. Because she's yours."

Arthur took up the goblet and held on to it, examining the etching around the curved edge. "I've never had such a disobedient, nosy servant as you," he observed after a moment. "I've a good mind to throw you out the window."

"Messy," Merlin commented.

"Yes," Arthur agreed. "And you'd probably leave a stain on the courtyard."

Merlin watched him a bit longer and then pushed the plate of beef closer to him. "Are you going to eat that cheese?" he added. It looked fresh and butter-yellow, and smelled wonderful. And anyway, Arthur never ate all the cheese he was given.

"No," Arthur sighed, long-suffering. "You may eat it up, little mouse."

Merlin snagged the cheese and smirked at Arthur, who rolled his eyes and tucked in to the rest of his meal, and something felt mended even though that wasn't what Merlin had expected at all.

***

To Merlin it seemed as though everything was slowing down, just that little bit, easing into longer, bluer days. He occasionally saw Hilde, as he went about his work, but she had been moved to chamber duties in another part of the castle and Arthur's fancy seemed to have gone the way of Spring: a first flush, soon overcome. Merlin could not say he wasn't pleased.

He had always liked the summer months, though he was not exactly at leisure to enjoy them – instead of finding some shady nook perfect for drowsing in, and lazing away long afternoons, he was kept hopping. _I need some more herbs, Merlin,_ said Gaius. _Fetch me some wine, Merlin_, said Arthur. _Where in God's name are my throwing knives, Merlin? Merlin, do you actually know what an apple looks like?_

Arthur had a strange fondness for apples. Sometimes he made Merlin go and pick some just for him; apparently Merlin falling out of trees was just as amusing as Merlin falling off horses and over his own two feet, although that never happened unless Arthur was whacking him with a sword, and also last Tuesday when he hadn't been paying attention.

But even though he picked the apples, he rarely got to eat any, which is why the gift came as a very great surprise.

In the corridor below stairs, a serving girl gazed up at him with big eyes, her headscarf tied messily, a fresh red apple held in her hands.

Merlin had no idea why he was suddenly getting a delicious gift when usually, when they saw him, everyone in the kitchen would groan or curse or tell him off for stealing pheasant meat which he hadn't touched in the first place.

"Thank you," he said carefully. Probably, he decided, she had fallen in love with him and was trying to woo him with clandestine fruits. He was quite pleased with himself as he climbed the stairs back to his chamber, taking deep bites and feeling the tart juice crackle on his tongue.

The following day he was confronted by Daffydd, who washed dishes and pots. Everyone knew Daffydd only ever washed _himself_ up to his elbows, and so Merlin tried to step neatly around him to get to the bowl of soup waiting for Arthur. But Daffydd worked in a busy kitchen and knew how to cut someone off if it suited him.

"Morning," Merlin said, attempting not to breathe.

Daffydd held out — with a thankfully clean hand — a hunk of bread. It was freshly baked, soft steam curling out of it and dissipating into the air. Merlin's mouth began to water.

"Is that for Arthur?" he said, trying not to sound despondent.

"You," Daffydd said, and pressed the bread into Merlin's hands. Then Daffydd clapped him on the shoulder. "Poor lad," he said.

"Sorry," Merlin said politely, "do you mean me?"

Daffydd made a sort of tsking noise which reminded Merlin of his mother and turned away, stacking up monstrous pots on the table.

"Well, um, thank you," Merlin said. He grabbed the soup with one hand and hurried off, taking lusty bites of the bread.

By the end of the week Merlin was getting a little suspicious, though it wasn't enough to keep him from lingering just that little bit longer in the servants' quarters and the work rooms, and accepting the little kindnesses — for that was how his mother always described good deeds in Ealdor — that came his way. Mainly it was food, but sometimes there were an extra pair of hands to help him haul laundry, or beat the carpet rugs, and once or twice Marcus carried buckets of water upstairs when Merlin's arms were threatening to secede from the rest of his kingdom. 

It was nice, that's what it was. Merlin was beginning to think the populace of Camelot — or at least, the servants — had warmed up to him at last, as though they'd finally realised that even though Arthur treated him differently, he was still one of them. 

*

"My belt, Merlin. No, not that one — the brown one. The _other_ brown one. Yes, give it here."

"Will that be all, sire?" Merlin asked, with what he felt was exceptional patience.

"Why, somewhere to be? You've been hasty all evening."

"No," said Merlin. 

Arthur looked supremely unconvinced. "It is astonishing to me that you are still alive."

"I don't know what you mean," said Merlin, gazing at Arthur steadily. "As usual."

"What I _mean_, is that you are a terrible liar. So, come on, tell me. What's got you so excited you can't even stay to dress your master properly?"

Merlin felt a tiny hiccup of remorse, as though he was neglecting Arthur somehow, but — he told himself fiercely — that wasn't true. It was just Arthur twisting things, like always, to suit his own sense of importance. 

"Nothing. Just going to the tavern with some of the servants, that's all."

Arthur was watching him closely. "I see," he said. "Some of the servants."

"No one you'd know," said Merlin.

"Well, then," Arthur said, cinching his belt tight. "You'd best run along."

It was getting dark outside, and it had been an age since he'd had time to himself, if this counted. It did, he thought. It _should_ count. So Merlin shut the door carefully behind him and hurried down to the town, ready for a long drink to hold against the heavy heat of the evening.

*

Gwen said, "I heard you went drinking with George and his friends last night." She was looking at him with a troubled frown, a pile of laundry at her elbow. Gwen folded laundry as though she'd been doing it all her life; in the time it took Merlin to get one of Arthur's shirts in order, with those wayward sleeves and hems, she had made a neat pile of bedsheets and was smoothing out something that looked like a lady's slip, white and soft and pliant under her hands. 

Merlin agreed that he had gone drinking. "Not that I had much — I knew Arthur would be calling me at dawn, wanting a peeled grape or something."

Gwen turned to her laundry, and then back to Merlin.

"What?" he asked, smiling.

"It's just, they're not — you know Arthur doesn't think much of them."

"Grapes?"

"George, Merlin. And the other stablehands."

"Arthur doesn't think much of any servant. Unless they're pretty girls."

"Morgana says they're loutish. Perhaps they're good with horses and the steward keeps them on, but, well. I've never seen them be nice to someone for no reason."

Merlin cast Arthur's shirt into the basket, where it promptly developed a few extra wrinkles. "So, what, you think I shouldn't talk to them?"

"No," said Gwen. "I think you should be careful. There's been some talk recently. Some of the servants have decided you're doing them a favour."

Merlin watched as Gwen hesitated, looking at him uncertainly.

"What favour am I doing?" he asked.

Gwen sighed. "You remember when I met you –"

"Ah, I never forget a trip to the stocks."

"I told you then Arthur was — well, a bully."

"Right," said Merlin.

"He _was_ a bully. But I wouldn't say that now. And it's not just the bullying; he hasn't been — before, he used to — well, sometimes with the serving girls —"

Gwen's embarrassment filled in some of the details, and Merlin abruptly felt his cheeks grown warm. "Oh," he said. "Well, that, Gwen, that's nothing to do with me, I mean. I don't — I just do chores!"

"No, no, I know," Gwen rushed to reassure him. "I'm not saying _you_ do anything. But Merlin, he is better since you came here. And some of the servants have decided that you're taking the brunt of his —"

"Terrible personality?"

Gwen gave him a rueful smile.

Merlin dropped his gaze to his half-empty basket, a dozen lovely, inexplicable things falling suddenly into place. "So that's why," he murmured.

He thought back to the first instance, the girl with the apple, and the afternoons he and Arthur had gone to find their own apples, and the way the townsfolk would turn their heads to watch them pass. Merlin had thought it was because they liked seeing Camelot's prince, but he remembers, now, how people used to react to Arthur and his friends as they went strolling in the town, back when he first came here — how people used to scatter. Some of them would avert their eyes, as if they were afraid of trouble.

Last night, at the tavern, George had thumped his back and praised him for _never backing down; he's stronger than he looks, this one, eh, lads!_

_Jolly old Prince Arthur_, said George, lifting his tankard. _Long may his servant put up with him._

Merlin had laughed, soaking up the happy noise of the place, the feeling of being among friends.

"Here," said Gwen softly, picking up another of Arthur's shirts and beginning to fold it for him. Her voice brought him back to the wash room, with its faint light, the piles of linen and dresses and shirts all waiting to be put into some kind of order. "We'll still be here at midnight the way you're going."

*

The next day Arthur was cross with him; Merlin supposed he was being a bit quieter than usual, but he didn't feel much like talking. He was still thinking things over, trying to figure out the difference between what the servants thought and what he believed, because he was sure they had it all wrong.

He wasn't sparing anyone else from Arthur's fits of temper, not really. And he certainly wasn't responsible for Arthur being kind. It might look like that from the outside, to people who didn't know Arthur very well, who didn't understand his bravado and his pride, his nobility — but Merlin knew.

Merlin knew what Arthur was, and he knew, too, what Arthur was going to be. He had listened to the dragon but more telling were his own dreams. There were times he woke just as the dawn light poured its way white through the windows and he could still see the remnants of the greatest kingdom Albion would ever have — of a king beautiful and towering in his kindness, in his steadfast rule. 

It wasn't always easy to keep hold of that dream. He and Arthur butted heads and misunderstood; there were secrets between them, and odd loyalties. But what George said was true: Merlin didn't back down. Arthur was his to protect, and with Arthur he could help make a better Camelot, so that when a child was born with magic it was not a curse, and when a raider bullied a village it was not just a sad ending. And one day, when Merlin turned to Arthur and said, I did it for you, not because I'm a coward, not because I'm evil — 

In Ealdor they would laugh, to hear him described as strong. He had spent years feeling his body change while inside he was stuck, held fast by the people around him, by everything that said he was a danger to himself. He was wrong, in that village. He was still wrong in Camelot.

One day Arthur would make him right. 

*

When he brought lunch, Arthur said, "Alright. Tell me what's going on," with a bored tone, and Merlin was sick of having it all stuffed and jumbled inside his head, like the mess of clothes in the wash room, and so he shrugged and paused and said, "Some of the servants act like I'm not the same as them."

"You're not the same," Arthur answered, causing Merlin to look at him in surprise.

"Merlin, you have a sought-after position in the royal household. And I'll have you know you're given a great deal of liberty, for a servant, much thanks I get for it. No doubt the others wish someone would favour them, as well."

"Favour," Merlin said slowly.

"Well, what else do you call it? It is an honour to wait upon the crown prince."

"No, of course, lucky me."

Arthur waved a hand at him. "There you are," he said. He pulled out a chair and sat looking at the food. 

"Do they treat you poorly?" he asked after a moment, still gazing critically at the dishes before him.

"No," said Merlin. 

Arthur seemed to think for a while and said, "Sometimes it can be difficult to — have friends. In the castle."

Merlin looked over at him, at the casually down-turned face and the sunlight gleaming on his hair. Arthur ate in his chambers almost every meal, just himself, but he liked Merlin to stay and talk with him.

"It's fine," said Merlin lightly, and Arthur looked up to survey his face, searching, no doubt, for the lie. There wasn't one. "This is fine," Merlin added.

Arthur returned to his perusal of lunch. "Yes. Well. You would think they had more important things to be worrying about." He took a large spoonful of the stew and grimaced. "Such as this abominable cooking. What is this?"

"I believe it's boar, sire," Merlin said, doing his best to look innocent across the table.

Arthur paused. "Boar," he said, "or _rat_?"

Merlin grinned. "Definitely boar. I saw them making it. But it didn't smell very good."

"It doesn't taste very good either."

Arthur poked at the brown lumpy mass in a half-hearted fashion, apparently resigning himself to eating the entire bowlful. It struck Merlin as a very _Arthur_-ish thing to be doing, a sort of dogged commitment he saw from Arthur more and more.

"We could ride out to the orchards and eat apricots," he suggested.

Arthur dropped his spoon and stood up. "That'll do," he agreed.

***

A cold rain set in early that autumn. Seemingly only days before, Arthur had seen Camelot settled in the deep bow of summer, the trees laden with fruit and the fields surrounding the castle calling out to be walked upon barefoot. Everything was drenched in a blurry warmth, and long hours of sunshine lingered on into the evenings, fading away in a long, purple twilight. 

Arthur spent many of those evenings in the privacy of his chambers, wearing loose shirts and no boots, his fingers tracing languid patterns on the table. Sometimes he opened the casement and waited there in the hope of fresh air, turning his face upward to the constellations circling brightly overhead. It had seemed, for a time, as though the summer would never end.

But the seasons had changed with a snap, an abrupt welter of rain heralding a cold winter. The weather had turned particularly grim in the last hour, a grey cloud leeching away the light. Now Arthur sat dressed in his customary layers, his boots and coat, and was almost looking forward to adding arming doublet, hauberk and surcoat as well. 

Merlin was moving about the room, picking up clothes and a few apple cores – how they found their way on to the floor Arthur did not know. He always threw them onto the table very _gently_ once he'd finished with them. 

As he watched Merlin working, the quiet efficiency with which he moved and the lull of the rain conspired to make Arthur feel slow and indolent, a last echo of the bright summer.

There was a pile of breeches on one end of the table, ready for washing, which Merlin built higher with four shirts and a red jacket, one sock and a bedsheet. Merlin tried to add a few pillowcases on top but Arthur could see the foundations were bad, and a moment later it all toppled to the floor with a soft _whump_.

Merlin sighed heavily and began to pick it all up again. Arthur smiled.

"Very amusing," Merlin said curtly, glancing up in time to catch him.

"I agree," Arthur declared.

Merlin worked a little less quietly after that, banging the wardrobe shut and eyeing Arthur with what seemed a very loud air of complaint, even though Merlin said not a word. It was terribly entertaining.

When he had collected a bundle of half-eaten food on a plate and swept some crumbs into the nest of his hand, Merlin looked over at the window and said dubiously, "Do you really have to ride out in this?"

"I do," said Arthur.

"You'll rust before you leave the valley."

"Good thing I'm taking you with me, then. You'll be able to get to work on my armour directly."

Merlin stared at him. "Oh," he said, shaking his head, "no, I am not going out in that."

"_Oh_," said Arthur, "yes, you are."

"I have to stay and help Gaius," Merlin protested. "Everyone's taking ill in this weather; Lord Ricbert calls for attention three times a day complaining of his bones." He gave Arthur a very serious look. "I'm afraid Gaius needs me too much. He is not a young man."

"Nonsense," Arthur replied briskly. "You'll be back before he's had time to appreciate your absence. Now, come and help me into this clobber."

*

Yesterday, in the armoury, Merlin had been pensive and obedient. It was very strange.

"What's the matter with you?" Arthur had asked, annoyance pushing the question out of his mouth. Merlin had just done exactly as he was told for the third time and hadn't even _looked_ impertinent. 

"Nothing," Merlin answered.

A thought occurred to Arthur. "Has the little handmaiden broken your heart?" he said mockingly.

Merlin frowned. "What handmaiden?"

"The one you're always rattling on about." Arthur tried to recall a name, but he wasn't very good at servant names, on the whole. There was no need to be. "You said she injured her knee," he remembered.

Merlin gazed at him. Then his mouth began to curve.

"What?" Arthur said crossly.

"Do you mean Rose?" He was laughing now. "Arthur, I mentioned her once, when I was late bringing your dinner." 

Arthur hefted a sword from the rack and tested it for balance; the blade gleamed brightly. "In that case," he said, "remind me to instruct you — again — on the importance of being on time."

"Yes, sire," Merlin said, in a far more familiar way.

"Good," said Arthur. "Now, make sure this gets sharpened." He passed an eye over the rest of the swords. "And all of these as well."

"Why are we sharpening all the swords?" Merlin asked.

It was ridiculous how long it took him to ask.

"My father," Arthur said, pausing at the expression that had flickered across Merlin's face. "_My father_ has heard rumours of an alarming nature. I am going to investigate them."

"Alarming?" Merlin repeated.

"Yes," Arthur said, feeling pleased with himself. He crossed his arms and anticipated Merlin's reaction. "Of a dragon hiding in the White Mountains."

"I thought your father killed all the dragons," Merlin said after a moment. He didn't really seem to be awestruck; it was somewhat deflating.

"If it's true then one has escaped even my father, and has been living in secrecy."

"Well, I mean, it hasn't been harming anyone, has it? Or we'd have known about it sooner. If it even exists."

Arthur frowned at him. "So?"

"So we don't have to kill it. We can just leave it alone."

"Dragons are dangerous magical creatures," Arthur said firmly. "They would destroy Camelot if they could." He had heard his father say so often enough. And his father was the only one in all the land knowledgeable enough to trap one, to defeat it and chain it like a common beast.

Merlin opened his mouth to argue further — Arthur could recognise the signs by now.

"We'll be riding out to the mountains and I want my knights to be prepared for anything. Make sure you check with the steward to see everything is in order. Oh, and exercise my dogs. They've been making merry hell down in the kennels, with this weather."

"Shall I build you a new castle while I'm at it?" Merlin asked as Arthur left.

"I wouldn't trust you with building anything, Merlin," Arthur called back, his mood improving every moment. "But if I decide I want stones dropped on my head I shall tell you!" 

*

That night, Arthur climbed the staircase to Morgana's chambers and rapped at the door. Gwen opened it.

"Sire," she said, sounding surprised.

"Guinevere. I have come to enquire after Morgana's health." 

"Oh," Gwen said. She looked back over her shoulder and drew herself out the door a little way, keeping it tucked close behind her. "She is a little tired, my lord. She has decided it would be best to remain in her chambers and take some rest."

"Very sensible," Arthur approved. He hoped she would remain there until she was no longer so exhausted that she was foretelling his doom. It was — foolish. And in the court of Uther Pendragon, it was also careless. The king had little tolerance even for bad dreams.

"Gwen," Morgana called. "Tell him he may enter."

She was standing by the window, looking out at the dim courtyard. When she turned to him, Arthur could see the dark shadows that cradled her eyes. 

"You look dreadful," he said.

"Thank you," Morgana said wryly. "Arthur, what I said this morning —"

"It is forgotten," Arthur said gallantly, but it did not appease her.

"No," she said. "I know it sounds —"

"Treasonous?" Arthur suggested.

"Mad," said Morgana. "And stop interrupting. Arthur, you must not go on this hunt."

"Why not? Because of a bad dream? Don't be ridiculous."

"This is no time to be stubborn," Morgana replied heatedly. "There's no call for you to be there — or are you so bored with your lot that you'll ride out for anything?" 

"If I was I would hardly choose a mission to _gather information_ — Morgana. Enough." Arthur looked at her carefully. "You know I must do as the king commands."

"Sometimes you're a better man when you don't, Arthur."

_But not a better son_, Arthur thought, but did not say. 

Morgana turned back to the window, one hand worrying at her necklace.

"Don't go," she said.

"I will," Arthur replied.

"My lady," Gwen said gently from somewhere in the background. "Perhaps you should rest now."

Arthur left them. He tried to shake Morgana's look of dismay from his memory, but it shadowed him down the dark corridors and on into a restless sleep. 

*

Mid-morning provided some relief from the rain. It still fell, but lightly enough that Arthur paid it little attention. He walked around the echoing courtyard inspecting the preparations, nodding as the knights greeted him — and stopped short when he saw Morgana and Gwen standing off to one side, both of them kitted out for travel. When Morgana leaned to speak privately into Gwen's ear, Arthur caught sight of a dagger buckled at the side of her hip.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, striding over to them.

He got a haughty look in return. "We'll be joining you."

"Uh, no, you won't," Arthur said. "This is a mission for skilled knights. Not ladies and their handmaidens."

But Morgana was quite implacable, and when she raised one brow and told him, "Uther says I may go. Would you like to argue the matter with him?" Arthur knew he had lost the battle.

"Why would my father agree to let Morgana come?" he muttered to Merlin, who was already slouching in his saddle; it was a wonder he didn't ooze right off one side.

"Have you tried telling her she can't do something?" Merlin said. He sounded as though he enjoyed Morgana's wilfulness. 

"I am surrounded by treasonous dogs," Arthur complained, which only made Merlin huff a laugh, and speculate what parts of Arthur's body would be cleaved off, should Morgana ever hear him speaking of her in those terms.

Arthur shifted in his saddle. "But you don't mind," he replied.

"You've thought worse about me," Merlin said lightly. "You've even sacked me for it." He paused, looking thoughtful. "But I think I remember you were wrong about that. In fact, I think your exact words were: I made a mistake."

"I hope there is a dragon," Arthur said repressively, "and that it eats you up."

*

They didn't find a dragon. They _did_ find an old woman living in one of the caves in the foothills of the mountains, and she was extremely unimpressed to see them there. She screeched and threw rocks, and cursed them in terribly colourful language until they were all forced out, ducking and stumbling, Merlin laughing, his voice clear and young in the daylight.

Arthur thought there were more caves, and possibly all manner of hiding places, set deeper in the mountains, and so they pressed on. The terrain was difficult, and several times they had to let their horses pick their way single-file along the pass. Arthur placed himself at the front and several knights at the rear of the pack, to protect the most vulnerable members in the middle, though Merlin managed to inch his way up so he was second in line, sometimes close enough that Arthur could see him from the corner of his eye.

"You shouldn't be here," Arthur said, twisting in the saddle to check on the rest of the party.

"Neither should you," replied Merlin. 

"That makes no sense. Leaders always ride at the front."

"Do they go chasing after imaginary dragons as well?"

"Shut up, Merlin."

Eventually they found their way barred by fallen rock. The horses could go no further but, Arthur thought, looking carefully at the blocked pass, he probably could. 

"I'm going to go ahead on foot," he announced. "I want the rest of you to remain here while I scout the area." He dismounted and pulled Caradoc aside, saying quietly, "Protect the Lady Morgana and the servants. They are your priority, understood? If you don't see me by sundown, return to Camelot."

Caradoc pressed his lips together in an unhappy line, and nodded.

Arthur estimated he had gone about two hundred yards when Merlin appeared at his shoulder and asked, "Found anything?" in an appalling attempt at a whisper. 

"Only a very stupid and disobedient manservant. You were supposed to –" Arthur caught the stubborn tilt of Merlin's jaw and sighed. "Stay behind me," he suggested, instead. "Try not to make too much noise."

"Wouldn't dream of it," agreed Merlin, stumbling loudly over the small, shifting stones that littered the path.

Arthur kept his eyes moving, scanning the area for dead animals, fire-damage; things he had been told to note, but it was a grey and barren landscape, and their steps sounded oddly in the quiet. The pass seemed to fade in and out, rough-hewn and reshaped by time, pushing up into increasingly steep inclines. Now and then Arthur took pity and reached to pull Merlin along in his wake, and it was as he was doing this, dropping his gaze from the white peaks rising forbiddingly above, that he heard a low rumble. 

His first thought was thunder, for the sky hung heavy with clouds. But the noise came again and there was something wretched to it, something alive and twisting.

Behind him Merlin said, "Morgana is not going to be pleased about this."

The rumble seemed to come from all around them, caught and tossed back into the air by the surrounding hillsides. It was a good spot for an ambush, Arthur realised.

He turned to Merlin but before he could do more than open his mouth Merlin's expression changed, and then disappeared altogether.

*

Arthur woke on the most uncomfortable bed he had ever experienced. This was not surprising, as it turned out he was lying on the ground and sharp, loose shale was poking his back into an odd angle.

"What happened," he said, forcing himself to sit up amid a burst of pain in his skull. It was, sadly, not the first time he had been knocked unconscious and woken to find Merlin peering down at him. 

"You fell," replied Merlin, who was kneeling at his side. The daylight was going and there were deep shadows caught in his face, in his eyes and on his lips.

"The creature?"

"It wasn't a dragon, it was more like a...bear."

"Did it hit me on my head?" Arthur asked pointedly.

"Er, no, I think you hit your head on a rock."

Arthur pulled off a glove and pressed his palm across one eye, as if he could staunch the ache. 

"A rock," he said witheringly.

"Well," Merlin began, "the – wild beast –"

Arthur held up his hand for silence. He thought he had the sound of it now, the false cheer that lay in Merlin's voice when he was being untruthful.

"Is it gone?" he said. "This wild beast?"

"Yes," said Merlin. 

"Do you think it may return?"

"No," said Merlin. "I don't think so."

Arthur took a long breath, and let it out again. "Then we should get back to the others, and make sure they're safe."

"Arthur," Merlin began, but he said nothing else as Arthur stood and rubbed his head and got his bearings, only watched with anxious eyes as they retraced their earlier steps, night falling slowly all around them.

*

They found the others mounted and ready to leave, and Arthur decided to make for home. He did not much care about bear-like beasts which lived in near-impenetrable mountains, and saw no reason in pursuing it further. There was far too much else to do, back in Camelot, where threats were always at their door. 

"There was no sign of any dragon," he told Morgana in an offhand fashion. "So I suppose you were right. In a way."

"Indeed? And what exactly was I right about this time?"

"I think hunting dragons is my father's sport, not mine."

He had expected a sharp reply, something insulting, but she looked nothing more than relieved. 

"That was nice," Merlin said, after Morgana had returned to Gwen's side.

Arthur scoffed. "Enjoying my failures, are you, Merlin?"

"Yes," said Merlin, and smiled cheekily, looking right at Arthur in that open way he had, with his eyes bright. He was pleased. 

Arthur couldn't help but look back, not wanting to enjoy having that approval turned on him but finding it good, in the way of quenching a thirst after hours of drought. Merlin was happy, riding beside Arthur and talking nonsense, his gaze turning to Arthur again and again.

They made camp that night in the forest below the peaks; despite the sodden ground Merlin managed to get a fire going, and the dark trees provided shelter for the flames. Arthur let his saddle-sore muscles bask in the heat as Merlin muttered about the difficulty of finding dry wood and the poor horses and Arthur hogging all the warmth for himself, which was an abysmal lie — Merlin had planted himself as close to Arthur, and therefore the fire, as he could possibly get. 

Arthur did not complain. His head ached and he had nothing he could report to the king – despite what Sir Osred said, the woman in the cave was _not_ what could be called a dragon – and they would have to return to Camelot not so much conquering heroes as, well, just themselves, slightly more hungry and a good deal more dirty than when they left. But it had not been a wasted journey. 

They had a full company. Morgana sat nearby with her limbs arranged loose and easy, no visible cares marking her face. No accident had befallen any of his people, and Arthur was honest enough with himself to admit he was relieved, too. Perhaps their hunt had been a failure but it felt strangely like a success, and all he wanted now was to get home, back to his chambers, where he could shut out all but one of his subjects and finally get some sleep.

***

They had not built a fire because of the snow. Instead, the axeman was ordered out, and a basket placed on the dais. The surrounding crowd was smaller than usual: the wind was bitter and the ground frozen underfoot, and obviously some sensible folk had preferred to stay indoors where it was warm and less bloody. Well, Arthur assumed it was less bloody; he didn't go into town houses all that often.

Uther had looked at the lean crowd and made a dark remark about citizens not doing their duty. 

Arthur remained on the balcony until the warlock had been executed and then followed his father inside, listening as Uther gave orders for the guards to search the town and castle – the warlock had purportedly come to Camelot to see his sister, and now a castle handmaiden had gone missing.

In the quiet of the council chamber Uther sat frowningly, gazing at the red pennants lining the walls. Arthur tried to divert his attention to other matters: the winter stores, new reports of raiders attacking people on the road into Camelot. 

"Why would she run," Uther replied, "if she had nothing to hide?"

Arthur left the chamber feeling deeply tired.

It was by no means an unusual week. Arthur had attended hundreds of executions, and heard of many people fleeing in the night, so it did not occur to him to pay special attention to this case until he entered his bedchamber and saw Merlin's face, and he recalled, once, teasing Merlin about a young handmaid named Rose.

"Worrying over the servants again, Merlin?" he asked brusquely, shutting the door behind him. Merlin was waiting, ready to dress him for – well, he had told his father it was a search for the missing girl. 

"Something like that," Merlin replied.

Arthur felt a pang of sympathy. It was no fun mocking Merlin when he really was pathetic, and he certainly looked pathetic now: miserable and pale. Arthur had not the first idea how to fix the problem, but he wanted to, very much. Not so long ago there was a servant who had lost his betrothed: his work had suffered, his spirits had sunk, and one day he had simply disappeared from the castle entirely. Arthur had no idea, now, what happened to him.

That would not happen to Merlin. Merlin had come to fit into Arthur's life and if he were to disappear, one day, if he were to be suddenly absent, Arthur would feel it. He would regret it. 

He stepped over and palmed the back of Merlin's neck. He searched for the proper thing to say, absently stroking his thumb over the soft hem beneath it, and remembered Sophia: the need for her and the way he had abruptly come to his senses. He had felt himself to be on unsteady ground ever since. 

There had been, he thought, only one constant throughout his life.

His hand rose from Merlin's skin and settled over his shoulder. "Take it from me," he said, turning them both towards the table which stood waiting, laden with metal and leather, fine stitches of cloth. Here were the things Arthur had always depended upon, and probably always would.

"Love comes and goes. Only Duty endures. And it will always be important, no matter what it asks of you or gives you in return."

He took up the red arming doublet with its many ties and gazed at Merlin, who stood at the table with his body taut, his fingers curled quietly at his sides.

He waited and when Merlin looked up, Arthur said, a little awkwardly, "Help me with these, won't you?"

Merlin reached out to touch his fingers to the ties, threading them, bright red, around his skin. "Yes, sire," he said.

*

Merlin's hands could be clumsy. Sometimes they brushed Arthur's skin.

Arthur stood patiently as Merlin undressed him, and gazed absently at the white snow drifting past the windows, catching the now-afternoon light. Except for the crackle of the fire, everything seemed silent, almost as though there was not another soul in the world save for Merlin and himself. The fire was hot, and Arthur's skin thrilled to the warmth as Merlin nudged up his arms and drew off his shirt. 

He'd killed three raiders that day, and blood had spattered onto his surcoat, seeping into the faded red cloth. They had been opportunists, he thought. Poor discipline, lazy technique, part of a rabble he and his men had run to ground in the woods and routed utterly. In the quiet of his chambers he remembered the ground, mushy underfoot, and the air white-cold in his nostrils. All around him trembled the sound of hooves and the strike of swords, a dull roar of violence.

Merlin undid Arthur's breeches and peeled them away from his hips. Arthur did not move as knuckles whispered across his belly, but his blood began to settle more heavily, catching the warmth and storing it, sending it flashing through his body.

There was a certain intimacy between a prince and his manservant. Entrusting someone with all the particulars of one's life had that effect, and sometimes isolation and intimacy clashed with unsurprising consequences. Arthur had learnt that when he was thirteen and the touch of any other hand was a source of confusion. It was natural, he reminded himself, as Merlin haphazardly folded the clothes and turned back. The sort of bodily response that couldn't be helped and meant nothing other than he was healthy and human. Perfectly natural.

His blood was pounding.

Any other servant would keep his eyes to the floor and respectfully take his leave, pretending not to notice the betrayal of the prince's body. Or perhaps he would stay and bow his head and ask if there were anything more the prince required of him.

Merlin did neither of those things: he looked. He stood very still and looked at Arthur's body, at Arthur's bare thighs and hard prick, jutting out from his groin. Then he raised his head and looked carefully at Arthur's face, at his eyes, as though trying to see into Arthur's thoughts.

He looked and then he reached out. Fingertips on Arthur's hip, the flatness of a palm. It was just Merlin's hand, light and honest, but Arthur felt the touch like a hammer blow, like an insult. He took a sharp breath and looked down, to his own hip and the slim hand that lay upon it, then up into Merlin's face. Merlin was watching him — was always watching him, Arthur realised abruptly — as if Arthur was the clearest of sights, a tower on a shorn hill.

There was a sort of longing in Merlin's gaze, and a challenge, a wild hand flung out like laughter: _let's_, it said. 

The blood was singing in Arthur's limbs, the sinew strong. He wanted suddenly to snarl a hand into Merlin's dark hair and wrench him close, get the smell of his neck and the feel of his skin, mouth his way across the bones of his face. Get him naked and bent-kneed, close enough to taste when Arthur bared his teeth in some fierce joy.

_Now_, said his body. _Now, him, this one_. 

Merlin stood waiting, looking bold, afraid, young. Familiar. Wanted.

Arthur allowed him to lean in, and caught the nape of his neck.

*

The first time was a mess. Nothing more than hard rutting on the bed where Arthur kept a bruising hold on Merlin's arms, bit his neck and thrust his cock against Merlin's trousers until he came with a harsh whine and Merlin sagged beneath him, his clothes soiled.

Merlin had kept saying oh, oh, like he was mortally wounded, like he couldn't believe it, then when Arthur shoved one thigh against his cock he'd bucked his hips and gasped and brought himself off while Arthur looked down at him and watched. 

Arthur was torn between saying _oh_ himself, and doing it over again, and instead of wasting his breath he rubbed his lips against Merlin's jaw and twined his fingers deep into Merlin's hair like he'd imagined. It felt good to lie there, like that, Merlin kept close in a way Arthur could never manage out in the world, where Merlin rode beside him like an equal.

After a dazed moment Merlin began to wriggle to try to get his clothes off. Arthur let him, shifting down to take arrogant kisses of skin wherever it was being bared, his stomach and hipbone and the tops of his thighs, even his bony knees when Merlin lifted his legs to get his breeches right off. He tasted like heat and sweat and sex all over; Arthur rubbed his face against the plane of Merlin's throat and palmed his buttocks, his ribs, nosing up to one ear and sucking the flare of it into his mouth with a feeling like starvation.

Merlin swept quick, callused hands down Arthur's back, breathing _Arthur, Arthur_ low like a drum-beat, stuttering out into a moan when Arthur reached down and touched his balls, drawing his hand up to stroke along Merlin's cock. The sound of Merlin's voice made it sweeter, Arthur thought, kissing his cheek and his mouth, too, feeling his own cock hardening, a pulse jumping low in his belly.

There was oil at his bedside, kept for sore muscles. He always used it on himself, never got Merlin to do it because — because. He looked down at Merlin's long body, at Merlin watching. He hadn't thought of this before but maybe he'd known anyway, maybe he'd been looking for a long time, and the image of Merlin rubbing him down with oil forced a breath from his throat. 

He would not ask. Instead he gripped Merlin tight and rolled them over, lying down on his back in a way he'd never done before. He shifted, rocking his spine down into the mattress and lifting his knees, and Merlin's narrow hips settled between Arthur's thighs.

"Oil's in the drawer," he said roughly and placed one arm above his head, turning his face into the swell of his upper arm so he could not see Merlin's reaction.

There was a stillness, perhaps a hesitation. Arthur's breath was galloping in a way that felt suddenly conspicuous, but he felt Merlin shift and reach across him, and he caught the scent of the oil when the stopper came out: pungent, slick and earthy.

A moment later fingers touched him, sliding on his skin, down between his legs. Merlin paused when he found what he was looking for, the tight gather of soft skin, and Arthur held himself still as Merlin rubbed oil there, his hand curious and slow.

Merlin pushed one finger in, and then pulled it out and came back with two, wet with oil and warm and hard. Arthur felt them distinctly, a strange intrusion, and he opened his eyes to see Merlin biting his lip, one hand for Arthur, one hand dropping to squeeze desperately at his own cock.

Arthur reached awkwardly to stop him. "Get on with it," he grit out, suddenly not wanting to wait. "Come on, Merlin, fuck me." 

But instead of hurrying, Merlin slowed his pace further, and Arthur was struck with a rueful pleasure: he should have known. At last Merlin withdrew his fingers and rubbed oil lavishly on his cock, bracing himself over Arthur with one hand, sinking inside him in long moments, his whole body strung taut with care. He said, "Like this, sire?" in a way he probably thought was mocking but sounded, god, sounded breathless, sounded unintentional.

"More," Arthur ordered, clenching his teeth, and through the discomfort thought of how they stood around this bed everyday and said things like that, _sire_, how they argued and talked and never touched each other and here they were, the same people, just the same. "_More_, what do you —"

Merlin grasped at his shoulders and pushed deeper, then deeper still, until he was seated all the way in, and Arthur tipped back his head and breathed.

*

The thought had occurred to him once: if Merlin had been born a noble, they might have been friends. 

But lately he had come to know better. Arthur counted no friends among the nobility, no particular lovers, no one he'd allowed to penetrate too far into his life, that little sovereignty of his own, so jealously guarded. He'd found companionship with his knights, but that was different. They were his to command and they obeyed him without thought, and so there was a gulf between them which could not be bridged.

Lately Arthur had realised that, as a noble, Merlin would not have been his friend. Probably they would have meant nothing to one another at all. 

*

"Are you alright?" Merlin asked. 

"No, Merlin. You have sullied the purity of my body; oh, no, whatever shall become of me now."

From the corner of his eye, Arthur could see Merlin grin. 

"You were looking thoughtful. It was very unusual."

"I was thinking of all the chores you neglected to do this afternoon."

"I had special permission not to do them."

"Is that so?"

"Yep."

"Sounds like you have a generous master."

"When he's not cross and overbearing," said Merlin. 

Arthur stared at the canopy of his bed for a moment, striving to stay above the pleasant haze that lay all through his body. "You musn't talk about it," he said, thinking ahead, knowing this would be repeated. "This, whatever we do here. To anyone, understand?"

He looked over to see Merlin gazing at him. "Of course I won't," he said quietly, and Arthur believed him. Knew it already, in fact, because Merlin had proven to be loyal a long time since, but he couldn't have stopped himself from making sure. 

With assurance came tiredness. Evening had fallen, a great riot of colour in the sky flaring and dropping into darkness. If there was a moon it was well-hidden; clouds tucked over Camelot like a vast, soft dome. The only sound was the faint whistle of an icy wind as it navigated the stone walls, the crenellations and turrets. 

Inside it was warm. Merlin drew near and settled into the pillows, blinking drowsily in his direction, and Arthur remembered what he had said earlier, much earlier that day: _Love comes and goes; only Duty remains._ He wasn't sure, yet, if Merlin understood what duty meant, if he knew how large a word it could be. What bound the servant bound also the master; something Arthur thought his father had forgotten.

"Don't wake me if you need anything," Merlin said around a yawn.

"I certainly will," answered Arthur.

Merlin sighed as though his life was difficult, and Arthur watched covertly as Merlin closed his eyes and fell easily into sleep.

_You and I are going to be here for a long time,_ he thought, beginning to drift off himself, surrendering to it as the last embers of the fire sank and fizzled out. 

*

A soft snow fell throughout the night, covering the land over in white, but the clouds began to clear as dawn approached, the wind picking up and pushing them out to sea.

When the sun finally climbed over the distant ridge Merlin woke Arthur with food and clothes and insolent chatter. He ducked when Arthur threw a pillow and rolled his eyes when Arthur commanded him to be quiet, and when Arthur stumbled blearily upright, morning light catching his face, Merlin reached out a hand and held him steady.


End file.
